April 2020
Bio Note: I teach composition and mythology at Chattanooga State Community College. Originally from
southeastern Pennsylvania, I have lived in the Chattanooga area since 1972. I am married with four grown children,
two grown step-children, and four grandchildren, all boys. I also serve as the webmaster for the Meacham Writers’
Workshop, a biannual event featuring readings, discussions, and group conferences by creative writers from around
the world who share their experience and expertise with local and regional writers.
Author's Note: "Icarus, My Son" represents my own sense of helplessness and failure in helping my son face his addictions; "Missing Heaven," reflects my own ambivalence about this life and the next.
Author's Note: "Icarus, My Son" represents my own sense of helplessness and failure in helping my son face his addictions; "Missing Heaven," reflects my own ambivalence about this life and the next.
Icarus, My Son
He always took risks
That frightened me
This son of mine
Who seemed lost
In a labyrinth
Of his own making
I tried to be a guide
A father who could be trusted
Take the straight path
Be level headed
Stop reaching
For the moon
But I had to watch
Watch as he swooped
Through highs and lows
Booze and drugs
With only cigarettes
Or marijuana
To steady his flight
Watch as the brittle wax
My hands had formed
Softened
As if to embrace him
One last time
Before he fell
Missing Heaven
In heaven, I will miss
fried chicken, cherry pie, chocolate almond
ice cream, caramel candy, Coke.
In heaven, I will miss
the simple pleasure of pages turning in my hands,
the musty smell of books, the words shimmering.
In heaven, I will miss
the fragrance of fallen earth drinking rain,
the susurrus sweeping grace of this blessing.
In heaven, I will miss
the plummet of plump pheasants
thrumming air, threshing wind into flight.
In heaven, I will miss
pigeons sweeping widening spirals,
longing for, then wending home.
In heaven, I will miss
the death of leaves bleeding
rainbows in crisp, cool air.
In heaven, I will miss
the velvet softness of snow underfoot,
sunlight reflecting bright silence.
In heaven, I will miss
grey skies, gaunt trees gilded
silver, evenings crystalline still.
In heaven, I will miss
her supple, sweet flesh under mine,
the arch of her back, passion's pounding pulse,
the breath of life drawn deep.
In heaven, I will miss
the smell of a newborn child in my arms,
trembling and warm against my breast.
In heaven, I will miss
tears hot on my cheek, salty on my lips,
tears of loss and longing and looking back.
In heaven, I will miss
all that hell left behind.
©2020 Bill Stifler
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